Some Days
by piaffe417
Summary: Some days, they go out to lunch.


**Author's Note**: The inspiration for this story is twofold: the first part came when I saw the episode "Stress Position," where Goren and Eames met with Logan at the diner. (I can't remember the name of the place so I've substituted one of my local eateries.) The second moment of inspiration was when I simply asked myself the question: "How do they learn so much about each other if all we ever see onscreen is them working?" Thus, the moment(s) described here have taken place when Dick Wolf's all-seeing cameras aren't rolling. Also, I've tried a different sort of voice here – let me know if you think it works.

**Disclaimer**: Don't own them – couldn't afford the upkeep.

"_One measure of friendship consists not in the number of things friends can discuss, but in the number of things they need no longer mention_." Clifton Paul Fadiman

Some days they go out to lunch.

Some days, when the caseload is too heavy and the stress is too much, they exchange a weary look across their paired desks and silently agree that the only remedy for what they're feeling is a bit of fresh air and the heavy comfort of a stomach filled with food from Alice's Diner, where breakfast is served twenty-four hours a day and the coffee is always hot.

On those days, he'll rise from his chair first, unfolding his tall frame slowly to work out the kinks before turning to pull his overcoat from its characteristic hook and sliding it across his shoulders. By the time he has completed this ritual, she will have risen as well, her coat and scarf secured before he even turns around. And when he sees that she is, as always, ready to go before him, they will share a smile and he will gesture in his most chivalrous manner for her to lead the way to the elevator.

Some days, they go out to lunch and he leaves his battered leather notebook – the one with all of his theories, jottings, and important thoughts on each of their cases - behind.

On those days, they ride down eleven floors in the elevator and walk through the lobby of One Police Plaza before daring to speak to each other, as though fearing that to break the silence will somehow draw attention to them and foil their escape. The idea is to move quickly and quietly without catching the eye of anyone who might hurry over in search of advice on a perplexing case or just to make the type of small talk typical of those in law enforcement, though it's hard to disguise a man of six-foot four and a petite woman in heels that click resoundingly on the tiled floor as she hurries to keep up with his long strides. Still, more often than not, they slide through the front doors and hasten down the steps to the sidewalk below without drawing a single glance or passing greeting.

On those days when they manage to clear the bustling lobby and arrive on the sidewalk without delay, their pace becomes a stroll and the conversation begins slowly, with the reverence of two people savoring a rare gourmet meal. The words are casual but delivered warmly and are tinged with the barely bridled excitement of their escape. They speak of the weather (particularly if it happens to be raining or snowing while they walk, for they walk no matter what the forecast calls for) and of observations that they make on their journey, observations about sights and sounds and smells. (He is especially adept at identifying a particular odor and relating it to an anecdote or current event. This never fails to put a bemused expression on her face.)

A casual passerby might think their exchanges strange upon catching any clips or phrases of their conversation, yet the pair is so at ease with each other and comfortable with the routine of just walking side by side - his loose and lengthy strides shortened so as to allow her to keep up and their arms brushing now and then as they enter and exit each other's space - that somehow the pairing looks right. Tall and short, dark and fair – the differences aren't disparate because their rapport enshrouds them so completely that they appear as two halves of a whole, fit together so tightly with tongue and groove precision that no glue is necessary.

"You smell that?" he'll ask, button nose lifting skyward to catch the faintest of scents from within the swirling mix of vehicle exhaust and bustling movement that make up the city streets. "Thai food… Haven't had that in a while."

"Me neither," she'll chime in. "It's a shame too - there's that great Thai restaurant around the corner from my apartment."

"Didn't we get food from there that time…?" he'll sweep his eyes down to meet hers, hands clasping behind his back as he sidles closer to hear her reply. Head tilted to an interested angle, he'll wait expectantly.

"Yeah," she'll nod, neither needing to remind the other what "that time" was. "Right before…"

"I'd forgotten about that!" he'll laugh suddenly and loudly, his eyes lighting up and mouth broadening into a wide white grin. This laugh is rare, as he reserves something so deep and genuine for only those occasions when he is free to be himself and nothing more. It is a laugh that seems to – for a brief moment only – open up that part of himself that is normally hidden away from outside scrutiny.

He is free to laugh with her that way on those days that they go out to lunch because he knows that with her there is never any scrutiny, nor is there judgment. On those days that they go out to lunch, he laughs freely and openly because he knows that she will understand.

Even on those days when they don't go out to lunch, she understands.

Some days, they go out to lunch and they forget that they are cops.

On those days, they slide across the well-worn blue vinyl seats of the booths at Alice's Diner and leave their badges in their coat pockets, ignoring the shiny marks on their cuffs left from cloth chafing against a sidearm and only sitting with a clear view of both entrances to the building because the booths happen to face that way, not because cops learn never to sit with their backs to the door.

On those days – and only on those days – they can watch people pass by outside the window and not seek out the expressions of the guilty and the recalcitrant. They can observe an exchange between two people across the street and not suspect illegal activity and they can talk about things going on in their lives that don't have anything to do with their jobs. In fact, on those days, their job and their caseload are never discussed at all; those topics remain at the office with his beat-up notebook and her Santa mug.

Some days, they go out to lunch and reconnect, not as partners or as friends from work, but as two people bonded not only as a result of what they have been through together, but because of what they are able to read in each other's souls.

On those days, they talk about a lot of things that are otherwise left unspoken.

On those days, he'll loosen his tie and unfasten the top button of his collar while they order. Then, when the food arrives, she'll hand him four sugar packets for his coffee (always four, never three and never five) as he douses a short stack of whole wheat pancakes in syrup, saving just enough to pour over his sausage links, a gesture that is somewhat boyish and never fails to endear him to their regular waitress, who knows to put the sausages on a separate plate to accommodate this ritual.

And on those days, as he accepts the sugar, he'll wordlessly pass the salt across the table to her for her omelette (asparagus and Swiss cheese with a touch of red onion – not exactly healthy but nothing some time at the gym can't remedy). And as she sprinkles the crystals over the fluffy yellow surface, he'll take the first bite of his pancakes and begin to speak, slowly at first and not about anything too particular. He'll ask about her nephew or about a book that he knows she is reading and she'll respond with a smile, a nod, and an anecdote or two that there has been no time to share in between asking each other things like "Have you seen the ME's report?" and "What time do we need to be in court tomorrow?" And he'll listen and the conversation will begin to flow freely until their plates slowly empty and the waitress starts them on a second - and then a third - cup of coffee.

Some days they finish lunch and the conversation becomes serious.

On those days, they pull down the walls they usually put up around their personal lives, their fears, and their insecurities. They'll reveal their scars to each other, not as a means to gain pity or to unload any of their baggage, but as a measure of trust, for each knows that scars only blemish a person, they don't break them altogether. Their scars are what make them who they are.

On those days when they have finished their meal and are speaking in serious tones, he talks to her about his mother and her ongoing battle with schizophrenia. He tells her not only what he's learned about the disease on the scientific front – new medications, new therapies – but also how he feels about how the disease has effected him. He is honest about his anger towards his father for abandoning his mother when she was diagnosed, honest about his frustration in having to deal with the day-to-day management of someone who, in an ideal world, would have been able to take care of him (not the other way around), and honest about his fear that he may one day become like either of his parents. The fear is difficult for him to admit, for he is used to living within the persona he has perfected, a persona that does not allow for such an emotion to exist. On the job, he can be at times razor sharp, vindictive, charming, bumbling, curious, disinterested, sympathetic, rude, or a precarious combination of all of those characteristics. But on the job he can never show fear.

Some days, they go out to lunch and he can admit to being afraid sometimes.

On those days, he also tells her stories from his past – sad stories from his childhood about his father leaving or his mother losing control and also funny and happy ones about adventures with his older brother, the wild days of racing cars with his buddy Lewis, and pranks he and his Army buddies played on each other. It is the happy, crazy stories that she likes the best because of the way his eyes light up as he tells them. Decades of cynicism lift from his face as he speaks, long-fingered hands gesturing wildly to make a point and teeth flashing a grin here and there to emphasize a point. He is animated on those days and plays up different parts of his tales just to see her reaction.

On those days, she laughs freely at his antics and lifts her hands to cover her mouth if a guffaw threatens to disturb the other patrons of the diner. At particularlynerve-wracking moments in the story, she'll cover her eyes too and when she moves her hands, she'll find his eyes locked on hers like a magnet. He seeks her approval and with every smile and nod, she gives it wholeheartedly. The life that he has led never fails to amaze her – though, being a native New Yorker, she is of the opinion that she should have seen and heard everything by now. Still, the man who works so hard to make her laugh - a sound that is only seldom heard when they are working - continues to be a mystery to her, no matter how well she thinks she knows him.

On those days they go out to lunch, however, she gains another piece that she can use to fill in the puzzle that makes him up.

Some days, they go out to lunch and he learns more about her too.

On those days, she meets his tales of childhood adventure with those of her own – of being a tomboy and driving her mother and grandmother mad and later of fighting with her sister over clothes, boys, and the family car. She also shares her experiences in the police academy; she tells him what it was like to be a petite, good-looking woman joining the "boys' club." And he listens actively, head listing slightly to the left and eyes softly focused on her, not probing, but rather waiting.

On those days, because he doesn't push her and because they are being open with each other, she is comfortable telling him more. She tells him about her husband and what she went through when he was killed in the line of duty. She admits that dating is difficult and that she fears that she'll never find another special someone to share her life. She tells him about what it was like to be a surrogate mother carrying her sister's child and what it's like to be more than an aunt and less than a mother to her nephew, how the balance is at times a joy but mostly so delicate that she feels as though she's riding a bicycle on ice.

On those days, it's okay for her to show fear too because admitting to him that she is sometimes afraid isn't revealing a weakness, but rather sharing a piece of her character with a friend who understands. He, more than anyone, understands.

Some days, they go out to lunch and he finds himself mesmerized by how much their friendship means to him.

On those days, he never feels alone and the fear that sometimes grips him feels further away.

Some days, they go out to lunch and she realizes that there is nowhere else in the world that she'd rather be than sitting in a rundown diner with her partner.

On those days, the feeling of contentment she experiences is so powerful that she wishes for each moment to stretch until eternity.

Some days, they go out to lunch and two hours pass before the tinny ring of a cellular phone interrupts their reverie.

On those days, the real world crashes in with all of the subtlety of a SWAT team with a battering ram.

On those days, the hardened scowl of a police detective will sweep over his face as he answers the ring, speaking in laconic fashion to their captain on the other end: "Where? Okay, we'll be there." Then he'll look at her with an expression that is both apologetic and grateful for the two hours that they've just shared. The days that they go out to lunch mean a great deal to both partners and they acknowledge that with a soft blink and shared smile before they rise from their seats and head to the cash register to pay their bill.

On those days that they go out to lunch, he'll hold the door for her as they exit and they will resume talking about the weather and other light topics as they hurry back to the office.

Some days, they go out to lunch. And on other days, they often wish they could.

FIN


End file.
